


A kiss is still a kiss

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Joanlock - Freeform, Pretending To Be Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5862709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan and Sherlock go undercover as a married couple for the NSA after working on some skills.</p>
<p>Final chapter!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Your name, miss?"

"Mrs., Mrs. Sloane." 

"Alright, Mrs. Sloane, you have a dinner reservation for two at nine o'clock," the hostess smiled courteously, her eyes darting behind Joan. 

He placed his hand lightly on her back. "Everything all set here, sweetheart?"

Joan tried not to giggle. That word coming out of Sherlock's mouth was so ridiculous. "There you are, sweetie." She leaned in towards him and gave him a a small kiss on the lips. To his credit he didn't jump. "Yup. We're all set for tonight. Romantic dinner for two at nine." She moved in for another kiss and caught the hint of amusement as it crossed his face.

"Good, good. The concierge gave me directions, so I think we're ready to go." He graced the hostess with a dazzlingly insincere smile. Joan was amazed. Sherlock had clothed himself with what seemed minimal effort in this persona - suave, sexy, at ease with social interactions - his charm knew no bounds. 

 

_Two days earlier -_

"Okay? Ready? I'm going to kiss you. We'll start with the cheek first. Okay?"

Sherlock stared straight ahead and nodded.

The subject had been discussed. If they were to be believable as newlyweds, they needed to look comfortable displaying affection. Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to the exercise. 

Joan leaned over slowly and watched his jaw clench and his body stiffen. "It's just a peck on the cheek," she reassured him. Sherlock strove to remain in control as he watched her approach out of the corner of his eye. 

Her lips made contact with his cheek - a bare wisp of a touch, grazing stubble more than skin. 

Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut and he took a breath in and held it.

More affected by his reaction than she wanted to admit, Joan pulled back and studied him. Sherlock opened his eyes, released the held breath but did not look at her nor did he speak.

"That's a bit extreme." She tried to keep her tone light. His lack of response irked her.

"If you find my kisses to be as repulsive as all that, perhaps we should forget this whole thing." 

Again, no response.

Angered, Joan stood and left the room.

 

He found her in the kitchen, glass of water in hand. Joan turned her back on him as he entered, choosing to study the counter's backsplash rather than look at him. 

Sherlock came and stood beside her. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on the counter, while he squinted at the coffeemaker as if he'd never considered its true value before. A sudden breath, and he spoke. "In actuality, my reaction to your .... to your kiss was the complete opposite of repulsion." His eyes darted to hers to see if she took his meaning. 

Her eyes continued fixed on the tiles before her. She scoffed, "Right. That was you enjoying yourself was it?" She sighed and tried to understand. "Its just a kiss. You have sex with scores of women. A kiss should mean nothing to you by now."

He pushed the coffee maker back a centimeter and adjusted the carafe. Tilting his head first away from her and then towards, he tried to explain himself. "Sex is a physical activity like playing handball or running. It's just movement, action, corporeal gratification, nothing personal ... A kiss ..... A kiss is an act of intimacy, of emotion.... face to face, there is no hiding. ...I have not kissed anyone since I..." Sherlock stopped and shook his head, hoping she'd understand with no further explanation. 

Joan took it all in in silence. 

His voice, soft and low, as if speaking to himself rather than to her broke through that silence. "I fear tapping into something that once tasting freedom might break the walls containing it."

She understood. Any feelings they might have for each other were not allowed expression but kept in check, for the sake of the work and the partnership. 

He continued, "I think, perhaps ... If we uhm practice the act sufficiently, thoroughly sanitizing it of emotion via repetition ... " he stole another quick glance at her, "it might lose its appeal."

"Kind of like eating nothing but Oreos for 2 days until you can't stand the sight of them."

Sherlock looked at her quizzically. 

She waved him off, "Childhood ... Mom cured me of my cookie problem..."

He looked at her with concern, "Well, perhaps not quite so severe a treatment as that. I'd like to think we could still share a cookie at some point in the future when all is said and done."

Joan smiled in spite of herself. Her eyes traced the grout of the tiles before her. " ... I worried about losing control but I didn't think it would be a problem for you ..." Turning towards him, she found a look of surprise on his face at her admission. A moment of understanding passed between them. 

Sherlock turned and leaned his back against the counter, arms crossed he considered their options. "We are two highly intelligent individuals, surely we can find a way."

After further discussion, Joan pulled him into his bedroom and settled him onto the sofa.

"Okay, sit back. Close your eyes. We are going to make out until you don't flinch ..."

"Watson, I ..." He was still apprehensive.

Joan pushed him back against the cushions. "We discussed this. We can do this. Now, close your eyes."

"Watson, what if I can't control ..."

"Don't worry. I can control you... You need to worry about controlling me." Her comment brought lightness to his countenance. Joan took the opportunity and placed a small kiss on his jaw. He grimaced. She ignored it. With a bevy of small chaste kisses, she made her way to his chin.

His eyes remained closed and his breathing grew rapid as he waited. Sherlock could feel her warm breath moving up towards his lips and he strained to control himself.

Her lips touched his. The kiss was gentle, closed-lipped, warm and he responded in kind. Her lips returned to his for a second time and then a third, and a fourth; each time pressing a little harder, lingering a little longer, building a small rhythm of touch.

Partially opening his eyes, he watched her through a haze of eyelashes .... enjoying the proximity of her face, her eyes. He took in her scent, the feel of her lips, the warmth that radiated between them and soon enough his lips parted, as did hers in response. 

"Watson," he spoke into her mouth and she responded, bringing a hand to his cheek, caressing him. Their kisses lost their chaste reserve replaced by a sense of urgency, a need to express deep sentiment too long buried and neglected. They inched their way from vertical to horizontal. Joan wrapped her arms around him, pressing him closer, urging him to continue. 

The phone stopped them. Both their phones buzzed and chimed announcing texts almost simultaneously - hers in the kitchen and his in his coat pocket. They pulled apart breathless and confused. He grabbed and read the reminder from Agent McNally about meeting in the morning to review logistics.

Sitting side by side and slightly embarrassed, they attempted to compose themselves. Sherlock spoke first, "I don't think your mother's Oreo cure is going to work for us. I can't imagine not wanting ... this." He motioned with his finger between them. 

Joan nodded, "We should go slow. Maybe just hold hands for now." She extended her hand and he took it. "We'll work our way up to casual hugging and kissing."


	2. Chapter 2

Meandering crowds of tourists flowed past them as they exited the hotel. Camouflaged in matching turquoise polo shirts, white shorts for her, cargo pants for him (he refused the shorts) and dark sunglasses, Joan and Sherlock fit in with little effort. The expensive athletic shoes, Rolexes on each of their wrists and gold chains garishly shining from their respective necks further marked them as wealthy tourists. 

He reached for her hand as they walked and interlaced his fingers with hers. "This makes five for me and three for you."

"No," she corrected. "Four for me." She smiled in her best fake-loving manner so that their follower could take note.

"No." Sherlock graced her with a patronizing copy of her smile, "The second kiss in front of the hostess did not count. That was totally gratuitous. No need for it, you had already established intimacy with the first one."

"But that second kiss, small as it was, confirmed it." Joan stood her ground. 

A game of sorts had developed between them: one point was earned by the initiator of an act of affection demonstrated in public. Each kept score and the winner at the end of the assignment chose a suitable penalty for the loser. 

"By that logic, I could kiss you twenty-five times in a row and have each one count." Sherlock scowled. Stopping at the corner, he quickly checked traffic in both directions and was about to cross against the red, when she tugged at his hand and stopped him.

Joan leaned in, "We're tourists, remember?" He sighed and impatiently bounced at the curb, fingers clenching and unclenching against her hand while they waited for the light to change.

"I assume you noticed we're being followed?" Her voice was soft and she looked straight ahead as she talked. 

"Yes," he answered. "I think its one of McNally's though. Rather clumsy."

The light finally changed and they continued on. The route chosen by the concierge for their walk down to the South Street Seaport was not, as Sherlock pointed out several times, the most direct, but it was scenic. A pastry shop caught her attention and they stopped to ogle the sweet confections. Catching sight of their reflection in the shop window, side by side, hand in hand, provided a moment of amusement for both. 

"We make a rather believable couple," Sherlock spoke at their reflection. 

Joan looked up at him, stood on tip-toe and kissed him on the cheek. "That makes it five for me," she whispered into his cheek.

He leaned in despite himself. "Four," he answered. With suppressed smiles, they continued southward. 

As they turned to cross Church St., he suddenly yanked on her hand and pulled her back towards him. His arm jumped to her shoulders and her hand flat palmed across his chest. A taxi, ignoring the pedestrian right of way barreled through the intersection, coming within inches of them. Horns blared and tires screeched as others expressed anger at the cab's reckless turn.

A little shaken, they exchanged a quick visual exam, to verify no damage had been done. Satisfied that it had been a random act of aggressive driving and not one aimed specifically at them, they continued walking.

"That..." he jerked his head back towards the intersection, "was a freebie, by the way. I'll forego the point."

Joan shook her head, "Thanks, but that was not a public display of affection."

"On the contrary, that, in actuality, was the first true public display of affection since we started this charade." 

 

***********  
One day earlier:

The simple task of automating the expression of physical affection worked wonders. 

A timer, set to go off in five minute intervals, became the means of accomplishing the task. The buzz meant they stopped whatever they were doing and exchanged a mandatory kiss, hand-hold or hug. The first hour of buzzes proved awkward, full of stilted approaches and bumped noses but soon after, the symbolic acts of caring became easier and by the evening's end, almost second nature, i.e., Sherlock wasn't flinching. Each encounter was performed with little eye contact and no emotion, except for a couple of occasions where perhaps more feeling slipped across than was intended. 

"Morning," she shuffled into the kitchen and met him at the counter. Sherlock handed her a mug of coffee. His head bent down, her face moved up, and the exchanged kiss of greeting. The timer was no longer necessary. Joan moved to the table. 

"We're due at the station after our meeting with the NSA." He brought his cup and a plate of toast for her to the table. Again, she reached up, he moved down, kiss. 

Joan reached for his hand before he turned to sit, and gave it a squeeze, "Butter?"

"Mmm..." He brought her the butter and stroked the side of her arm with the back of his hand at completion of the task. 

She looked up at him again expectantly and he obliged. This kiss was a little more than a peck. He lingered for a second and suddenly stood bolt straight. "Anyway," Sherlock moved to sit, "We will need to inform the Captain about our unavailability for the next week or so."

"Do you think it'll take that long?"

"Probably not, but best to err on the side of caution."


	3. Chapter 3

The NYC tour boat backed out into the East River. The boat was not at capacity and left them their choice of seats - outside, at the stern, appeared to be the most advantageous location, allowing them to be watched and to watch. 

Sherlock plopped down beside Joan and leaned back onto the vinyl cushioned bench. Squinting into the bright glare of water and sun, he surveyed the skyline and their fellow travelers. 

"Do you see him?" Amid the grind of the motor and the cheery, static-laced audio of the tour guide, his voice was barely audible. Joan scooted in closer towards him. 

"Her," Joan said. "Female, mid-forties, short hair, pink top." She turned and gazed at the Manhattan skyline as the boat gained speed. "... Started following us after her male counterpart checked in with her and then disappeared." Joan crossed her legs and casually directed her gaze in the direction of the woman.

"Ah, good." Sherlock turned his head to ogle the bridge the tour guide was spouting "fun-facts" about and to catch a glimpse of their new follower. 

"Move in a little closer," Joan asked and he complied. His hand casually moved to her knee and gently rubbed. Joan looked up at him surprised. 

"Double points for that," he taunted her with his eyes. Joan shook her head in amusement and leaned into him. 

"We are going to have a recount at the end of the day. Your scoring seems off."

They sat in relaxed silence for a minute or two, enjoying the cool salt air and the views of their City. Sherlock decided this was most likely the best moment to tell her. He leaned in and spoke quietly into her ear.

Joan pulled away and whipped her head around to look him square in the eye. "You did what?"

He maintained an even tone and relaxed manner, counter to the fear that took hold within him when he saw the look on her face. "I told Minerva she could stay a few days at the brownstone, while we're gone ... until her new apartment is ready..."

"And you didn't think to talk to me about it first?" Joan glared at him. Even through the darkness of her sunglasses, her eyes pierced his composure. 

He fidgeted and stammered. "I ... I didn't think you'd mind..." His attempted smile looked more of a pained grimace. 

She took hold of his hand on her knee and, as if it were a dirty tissue, flung it away towards his own lap. Joan stood and walked to the railing, watching the dark green water churn behind the boat. 

Sherlock reluctantly followed, trying to lighten the moment. "You know, they aren't going to kidnap either one of us, if they don't think we are madly in ... in ... infatuated with each other. " His voice trailed off. He had problems with that "L" word - it always stuck in his throat. 

"Love, Sherlock. The word is love. You can't even say the word. I'm not sure why we thought we'd be able to pull this off." Honed to a sharp edge, her words hit their mark with precision. He stood beside her, body rigid and face a stony mask.

Joan continued, "Do you understand why I'm upset?"

"You don't care much for Minerva, I know, but she needed help and ..."

"No. And well, yes.... You're right. I don't care much for Minerva. She does not understand boundaries.... But she is not the problem. The problem here is you. You made the decision without consulting me. I would have probably agreed to let her stay, but I was not even given the choice. The brownstone is our home - yours and mine."

"Understood." Sherlock nodded sullenly staring at the ripples spreading out behind the boat. 

Joan sighed. "Come on ... We have to show old pink shirt this was just a little spat. Put your arms around me and pretend you care."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he turned towards her. She grudgingly moved forward, placing her hands lightly on his chest, followed by her forehead. His arms stiffly encircled her shoulders, his fingers pressed gently onto her back. 

An awkward moment or two passed and Joan lifted her head from his chest. She started to pull away but felt his arms move to bring her closer to him, the palms of his hands flat against her holding her tight to him. Joan sunk back into his chest, her arms finding their way around his waist and squeezed him back tight. He placed a kiss at the top of her head, murmuring something she couldn't quite make out.

The screams of a small child as it ran towards them broke the moment. The toddler, covered in the remnants of some gooey treat was running towards Sherlock's legs. His mother ran closely behind him, "Benny! Ben! You stop right now, do you hear me!"

Sherlock sidestepped away from the child, pulling Joan with him to save her from Benny's attack.

Joan smiled at Ben as he ran past and then turned her attention back to Sherlock. "This isn't over you know. You and I are having a good long conversation later tonight...."

He sulkily agreed and once again stepped out of little Ben's way as he barreled past them.

********  
One day ago....

Joan sat at the desk next to Bell's, sorting through paperwork. Exasperated, she looked at Sherlock who leaned at the desk's edge, checking his phone, "What did you do to this file? Shuffle it?"

Sherlock grimaced half apologetically, "I dropped it."

A low chuckle, escaped from Marcus and Joan shot him a displeased look. Marcus quickly changed the subject, "So you two won't be available for a few days, right? Can I ask what you're working on?"

"No." Sherlock's direct answer did not surprise Marcus in the least. He looked up at the Captain who stood, coffee cup in hand, taking in the scene. "It's probably super hero, secret agent stuff." 

Gregson smirked, "I wouldn't be surprised."

"I hate to break up the party, but I have an errand to run." Sherlock placed the phone in his pocket and addressed Joan directly. "Come with or stay here?"

"I should get this file in order before we leave," Joan looked up at him.

"Alright, then. I'll meet you back at the brownstone around five." And with that he bent down, she lifted her head up, and a quick kiss on the lips was exchanged. 

Gregson and Bell's eyes widened and they exchanged a look of surprise. 

Joan sat for a second, watching Sherlock walk away. She caught the small hitch in his step when he realized what they'd done. He continued walking without looking back. Realization then washed suddenly over her and she felt the questioning gaze of Marcus and Gregson at the back of her head. She decided she could either acknowledge the kiss, make light of it or ignore it all together. 

Joan chose not to explain and went back to shuffling documents. It really was no ones business but theirs. 

The men exchanged shrugs and being men avoided asking questions about emotions that might make them uncomfortable.


	4. Chapter 4

Joan stood before the hotel mirror. The black, spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress fit her like a glove. She'd have to send her compliments to the NSA. Her hair swept up in a French twist showed off the massive diamond and pearl earrings, also thanks to the federal agency. No expense was being spared to lure in their prey. 

She frowned at the strands of the necklace that lay in her hand. Behind her she could see Sherlock uncomfortably adjusting his tie and watching her.

"You're still cross with me about Minerva."

"No, Sherlock. That's done and over. If I held grudges ... well, if I held grudges chances are we'd not be partners or friends."

Sherlock, hands in pocket, watched her face in the mirror, acknowledging her statement with a curt, embarrassed nod.

"Here, help me with this." Joan held up the strands of gold, pearls, and diamonds. "The clasps on this thing are heavy duty, thank god. I'd hate to lose it. I think its worth more than the brownstone."

Sherlock came up behind her and took the proffered ends of the necklace. She tilted her head down and held the front of the strands in place while he worked. Joan felt his fingers maneuvering against the nape of her neck. He moved nearer; his breath swept softly across her skin as he worked on the multiple clasps. With all the kissing and physical contact they'd engaged in recently, his proximity and touch should not have an effect on her .... And yet it did. Joan tried to control her breathing and the micro moves that would signal to him just how much his touch affected her ... 

"I've seen locks with less secure mechanisms ..." He mumbled as he finally clicked the last clasp and smoothed the necklace's strands. All at once he realized how close they stood; her scent, the warm glow of her skin, the sound of her breath .... He caught her reflection in the mirror. Mesmerized, he moved his fingertips from the necklace and lightly traced the arch of her neck down the delicate slope of her bare shoulders. 

Her control began to slip away and she could feel herself drifting back towards him. Joan raised her eyes to his. 

Husky and low, his words caressed her, "You are exquisite." 

No longer able to control her breath, her body's reactions or her emotions, Joan broke away. She looked down and fidgeted with the jewelry box before her. "You don't have to do that. ... I already told you I'm not mad."

Sherlock would not let her run and hide so easily. "When have I ever flattered you, Watson?" His voice was an ardent whisper. Joan would not look up but she could feel the intensity of his glare. 

"I observe and state the truth. You are exquisite." The whispered words moved across her skin. 

Restraint left Sherlock and his lips moved to her neck. A small exhalation of pleasure escaped her and she dropped her head towards him, seeking more. Her cheek caressed the side of his, and her lips grazed his forehead before she found the strength to speak.

"Sherlock, stop ... " Soft and breathy, the sound of her words contracted their meaning. Another small gasp escaped her and she redoubled her resolve. "No ... Stop. There are cameras in this room...." 

His words were mumbled into her neck,"It's okay ... McNally needs some excitement in his life."

Joan smiled, and tried to be the voice of reason, "We can't ..."

He stopped and whispered in her ear, "We could duck into the closet?" 

She stopped to consider the idea for a split second before reason reared its sensible head once more. ".... Maybe later. We have dinner reservations. A spy and a kidnapper to catch... Remember?"

"Come on Watson, how about just a minute or two in the closet, hmmm?" 

Joan turned and faced him with an admonishing look and Sherlock knew the window had closed. He straightened his jacket and pulled at his cuffs, assuming his best Holmes' defensive posture, "Alright then." He offered her his arm, "Dinner?"

Joan took his arm, "Yes, please." She gave his arm a slight squeeze as they closed the room door behind them and walked towards the elevator "We'll have to move the suitcase out of the closet...." 

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Sherlock set the suitcase down before him. "Are we ready?" He called out to Joan who was coming down the stairs, overnight bag on her shoulder.

"Yes. Everything is off upstairs. You checked the backdoor and windows?"

"Of course."

Joan stood in front of him. "Okay. Do you think this will work?"

"I think we've got this Watson. We shouldn't have any problems whatsoever convincing our suspects we are very much married and in love and prime candidates for kidnapping." He bounced enthusiastically hoping to hide just how nervous this whole set up made him. 

Joan saw right through him and hoped he didn't see through her own bravado. "Good. We'll be okay? You and I ... That is ..."

Sherlock interrupted her, "Of course Watson. We are professionals. I promise you, no boundaries will be crossed." His bouncing stopped and he stood ramrod straight before her, assuring himself more than her.

It wasn't him she didn't trust; it was herself. The boundaries between them were blurring fast and she didn't want to be the one to ruin a friendship. "Alright. Let's do this then, Mr. Sloane." 

He picked up the suitcase and arm in arm, they walked out of the brownstone towards the waiting towncar.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter. Very joanlocky. Thank you so much for reading and commenting on this story. I hope the ending works satisfactorily. I'm almost thinking there might be another story here but for now, this is the end. Thanks again.

Candlelight flickered across the white linen tablecloth and sent soft shadows playing across the pink roses that floated in the crystal bowl. Ensconced in the black leather booth, Mr. and Mrs. Sloane stared lovingly into each other's eyes, holding hands and murmuring endearments.

"My money is on the busboy." He lifted her hand to his lips.

Joan smiled adoringly, "I don't think so. Even with instructions, I doubt he could figure out how to open a paper bag."

Sherlock smiled as her hand moved and her fingertips gently stroked his cheek. "Don't sell him short. The dimness may be an act ..."

"Possibly," she conceded, brushing her thumb across his lower lip. "Our lady in pink is here ... now she's in blue .... in the corner." Joan noted the micro-reaction, almost involuntary, of his lips as they parted at her touch.

"I'll have to have a word with McNally about the obviousness of his operatives." Taking hold of her hand, he pressed a slow kiss into her open palm that temporarily stopped their conversation. Joan's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, opening in time to catch a look of horror cross Sherlock's face.

The voice over her shoulder explained the horror.

"Blimey, I knew you two had the hots for each other. It was only a matter of time, eh?" And with that Gareth Lestrade plopped down next to Joan and made himself comfortable.

"Go away." The words were hissed out between gritted teeth. "Now." Sherlock's face twisted into a frozen smile that would have scared a smarter man.

"Come on, mate. What kind of a greeting is that for an old friend. You look beautiful Joan, regal. Look at that jewelry. Glad to see he's finally treating you right."

The comment riled Joan, leaving her feeling slightly soiled. He spoke to her as if she were some pretty doll to be played with and adorned rather than related to as a human being. She swallowed the feeling down and maintained her own version of the frozen smile. "Gareth, what a surprise. Didn't know you were in town..."

Sherlock interrupted her, hissing once again, "Lestrade, I need to speak to you outside." He stood, hoping Gareth would do likewise. "Lobby. Now!" Lestrade jumped to his feet. Sherlock looked at Joan and bent over to give her a kiss on the cheek so he could whisper in her ear, "Keep your eyes open, something is amiss here." She nodded.

Lestrade grinned at the display of affection and with a glint in his eye was about to comment, when the angry glare of Sherlock cut him off. 

"Come on!" And with that Sherlock strode off towards the front lobby with Lestrade in tow.

Joan sighed. This was not good. Their cover was most likely blown and several months worth of work by the NSA completely wasted. She smoothed the napkin before her and casually assessed the diners and staff about her. Ms. Blue Dress had disappeared; took off after Sherlock no doubt. 

"I'm sorry to bother you ma'am ..." 

She jumped at the voice that was suddenly very close to her. The bus boy leaned over and continued, "Your husband has requested you join him. If you'd like to follow me."

Joan took a moment before she answered. The busboy had an old world manner about him. She noted the hint of an Irish accent hidden beneath his flat American tone ... an Irish accent ....

*******

"Lestrade, your timing is as excruciatingly abysmal as it ever was. You need to leave. Watson and I are undercover ...." The words were emphatic and precisely whispered so that only his intended target would hear.

Surprised, Gareth took a step closer, "Actually so am I ... sort of... The Garda tracked Ian Roberts to Manhattan, notorious borderline psychopath slash kidnapper slash assassin and sent me after him. We have reason to believe he's set himself up at this hotel ...." 

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by the lapel. "Irish?" He asked.

"Of course ..." He was summarily pushed out of the way as Sherlock rushed past him. 

Sherlock could hear the screams and gasps coming from the hotel's dining area and started running when he heard the crash of glass and wood. Well dressed diners scrambled past him as they fled whatever was happening in the restaurant. What an idiot he was to have left her alone. He could only hope McNally's people hadn't been that careless. 

Sherlock rounded the corner and burst into the dining area. A grin, larger and happier than any grin that had ever crossed his face before, displaced the dark and furrowed frown with which he had just entered the room.

He beheld his partner: her French twist had collapsed causing dark strands of hair to splay out in all directions; the gown strap that had grace that perfect shoulder of hers had snapped and now hung down her back; and the remnants of what might have been a wooden chair waved like a baton in her strong grip. She stood victorious over the busboy who lay unconscious at her stilettoed feet.

Joan looked up, slightly out of breath and smiled at him, "Irish accent." 

The lady in blue came running in after Sherlock and lunged towards the gun that lay beside the fallen man. 

Gareth followed her, kneeling to examine the man on the floor. "Good lord, that's him!" He angled the man's head to get a good look at the profile. "Hello there Ian ... We've been looking for you."

"Well done." Sherlock was at Watson's side. "Alright?" he asked.

She nodded yes. "It took me a second to connect the Irish accent and Lestrade but when he tried to strong arm me into following him ...." She motioned to the outcome of his attempts. "You don't think he's our guy too, do you?"

The lady in blue, now standing and flanked by two very obvious NSA agents, answered Joan's question. "He just may be. We are taking him into custody and asking a few questions."

"Now wait just a minute," Lestrade piped up. "I've been tracking this bloke for a few weeks now, he rightly belongs in my custody."

The agent looked at him as if inspecting a bug between tweezers, "And who are you?" McNally entered the scene and a rather heated conversation about jurisdictions ensued in which Sherlock and Joan had no interest. 

She put down the chair remnants. A quirk of an eyebrow and a tilt of the head were enough to start them on their way out towards the lobby. 

McNally stopped them, "Don't go too far. We are going to need to debrief you two."

Resigned to their lot, they sat themselves down at the nearest table to wait. Sherlock turned to her, "So, tell me how did you bring this international thug down?" Joan lit up with enthusiasm and began to recount her adventure. 

Sherlock, elbows on knees listened in rapt attention to her while an interagency brawl broke out around them.

 

****

It was the wee hours of the night by the time things were finally wrapped up. Debriefed and dismissed, they now found themselves in their hotel suite ostensibly to collect their things. Joan, stripped of her borrowed jewelry and carrying her shoes, entered first, followed by Sherlock. The room was in shambles. 

"Looks like the government boys cleaned out their equipment." Sherlock jumped up onto the dresser to examine a ceiling light fixture for surveillance hardware. "My god, they do messy work ... fingerprints in the dust ... lose wires." He hopped down and as he went about the room tsk-tsking, Joan packed up the few belongings she'd brought with her.

Sherlock stopped, "What are you doing?"

"What you should be doing - packing."

"I ... I thought we could perhaps stay...." His voice lost its officious tone and he walked towards her. "There are no cameras ...." He reached for her arm. "No listening devices ..." He stroked her forearm with one finger. "The room is ours...." He moved in closer, head bent down to hers as he whispered, "to do with as we wish."

Joan surprised him by reaching for him first, crushing her lips to his. When she finally broke free for air, she breathlessly spoke into his lips as she undid his tie. "Just this one time, right?"

Equally out of breath, he answered, "Yes." His hands roamed down the satiny black material of her dress; at the moment he would have happily agreed to any request of hers. "Yes ... Just this once ... Just this once ....," he murmured while his fingers searched for the zipper pull on her dress.

"No." The tone of her voice stopped his fingers in mid-pull. "Not here. The closet."

Sherlock looked at her confused.

"I kind of uhm,..." she wriggled closer to him. "I kind of built this .... fantasy about you and me ...." She couldn't look up at him. Embarrassed as she expressed her desire, she spoke into his now almost completely bare chest. "... In the dark of the closet ... Pressed up to each other ...." She lay her forehead on his chest.

Sherlock's breathing confirmed his agreement to her request. He forced himself away from her, opened the closet door, removed his suitcase and cast it to the side. He inspected the space and nodded, "Tight quarters, but I think it will work admirably." 

His eyes locked to hers as he stepped closer. Taking her by the hand, he ushered her into the closet before him. 

A smile played on his lips as he placed a small kiss on her shoulder. "Watson, you are exquisite ... A little kinky perhaps .... But exquisite." 

"I thought you liked kinky..." Joan shut the door and darkness enveloped them. Sherlock found himself pushed up against a closet wall and never got a chance to answer verbally but was allowed to respond to his ever-surprising partner in many other ways. 

***********

"I'm going down to the bodega for milk, anything you want?" 

Joan looked up at Sherlock, "Nope. Can't think of anything at the moment."

"Alright. I'll be right back." He bent down, she reached up and they exchanged a small kiss, that then became a second small kiss.

"You know we need to stop this." Her tone was much less committed to the idea than her words. 

"Mm hmm." He took another small kiss and stood up. "In time Watson, in time. We shall no doubt wean ourselves of the habit."


End file.
